Light
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Even the dingy motel sign, with half its lights blown out, looks like a denizen of winter wonderland. (Wee!Chesters, snow day, angst, fluff, not a single bit of slash). (I own nothing-not the Winchesters *sigh* and not the Hans Christian Anderson story I briefly reference)


**A/N: This just popped out of nowhere! No doubt because my home is deluged with snow at the moment…anyway, it's a bit fluffier than I usually go, but of course there's SOME angst because…have you read my other stuff? It's an addiction.**

Light. It's the first thing he sees, and it frightens him…because he knows dark, knows how to fear it so well that he's almost ceased being afraid of it. Dark means _grab a gun_ and _take your brother outside_ (_always that_) and _hide till Dad gets back_. But light?

"Dean!"

He shifts and blinks and strains his eyes to see, and it's then that he realizes that it's morning. _Morning_. But it's not usually _so_ bright out, and there's not usually a short, squat little figure shaking the bedframe insistently.

_What the…_

"Dean, it's _snowing_ out!" proclaims the specter at the foot of his bed, and the gleeful voice can only belong to Sam. Of course it's Sam—he can see that now, and Sam is wearing overalls and a winter coat and _Dad's_ mittens.

That explains his odd shape. And the snow explains the light.

He's had five minutes of panic and adrenalin for nothing.

"What time is it?" Dean queries, a little groggily. He has a sneaking suspicion that he's slept through the alarm…or something…because surely it's past time for school? (_Dad's gonna kill him when he gets back if the teachers have been nosing around_…)

"Ten," Sam says. "But don' worry. The school called and it's a _snow_ day!" His seven-year-old face crinkles up in a grin that's proudly missing a couple of teeth. "I thought you should sleep."

Dean wants to argue, because he's the big brother and somehow, it isn't supposed to be this way…but he's forgotten the details of _that_ again, because they're tangled anyway…and Sam's smiling, so _what the heck?_ It's not like they get many snow days, with all their travels. Florida's a beast for that kind of thing.

Sam hops up on the mattress, cupping his chin (smothering it) in the rough folds of Dad's mittens. "This is the second time I've seen snow," he announces, seeming to catch the tail end of Dean's thought. "Last time we were in Wyming."

"Wy_o_ming," Dean corrects, automatically. He rolls out of bed, grimacing slightly at the chill of tile floor against bare feet. Sure, let the motel in northern _Maine_ be the one without any carpet.

"OK." Sam's eyes scrunch shut for a moment, and Dean watches, half-amused and half-awed as his brother files away the pronunciation in his brain. He never makes the same mistake twice, when it comes to facts.

"You eat breakfast yet?" Dean grabs a fresh t-shirt and a rumpled, less-fresh pair of jeans.

"Untoasted toast," Sam says, straight-faced. Dean cocks his head. With all the diners they stop by, he guesses that _bread_ is a less common fixture in his brother's diet. Toast, sandwiches. No in-between.

"So…why are you waking me up, then?" The question is sharper from his own guilt than anything else. Not only had Sam fielded a call from the school, let Dean sleep, and made his own breakfast—

"Cause it's _snowing_! Can we go play outside? _Please_?" Sam makes a brave effort to clasp his hands together, but the mittens are just too big.

If Dad was here, there'd be a gruff rustle of newspaper, then an even gruffer _"No, there's work to be done," _and then…well, there'd be work. He'd come up with something.

But Dad's halfway across the state and there's no school and Dean can see when he pulls back the blinds that there's a good eight inches of white stuff on the ground.

Even the dingy motel sign, with half its lights blown out, looks like a denizen of winter wonderland.

"Sure," he says, and Sam's face lights up in a way that makes him feel warm all through. Maybe there _is_ something left for him to do this morning. "But let's get you some better mittens. Why'd you pick those anyways?"

"Mine are wet." Sam hangs his head, but he's too puffed out by his get-up to look truly wilted. If anything, he resembles a dejected marshmallow.

Dean bites back a smile. "Why?"

"They falled—they _fell_—" _(the kid even polices his own grammar)_ "in the sink."

Dean considers. "Hmm. Wear mine."

Sam tugs off Dad's with some difficulty and asks, "But what 'bout you?"

Dean pauses in zipping up his own coat. "It's just snow, Sam. I'll be fine."

They head outside and sure, maybe eleven's too old for this, but when Sammy shrieks with delight and hurls himself headfirst at a snowbank (_like that's actually going to feel good_) Dean can't keep himself from laughing and doing the same thing.

It's _darn_ cold. His mittenless hands redden instantly, especially when he starts building an arsenal of snowballs that he has no real purpose for (_cause sure, in a couple of years Sam'll be ready, but seven's too young for snow in the face_).

"I wonder if the Snow Queen will come," Sam says, out of nowhere…he's making a snow angel and Dean's just sitting there, pretending that his jeans aren't totally soaked through _(they are_).

"Snow _what_?" Maybe the kid does need some snow in the face after all—he's pretty strange sometimes.

"There's a story," Sam supplies dreamily. "She comes in the snow and takes a boy named Kai with her to her kingdom…"

"Weird."

"Maybe Mommy's a Snow Queen too," Sammy muses, spreading his arms in semi-circles through the feathery snow around him. "Just a good one."

He isn't expecting that. But the thing is—with her pale skin and golden hair and the white dresses she loved—Dean can almost see her, with a swirl of snowflakes around her like a crown…

_She wore white, That Night…_

"Mommy's not a Snow Queen," Dean says, and his voice sounds tired like it shouldn't on a Snow Day. "Mommy's—" and he nearly says _dead_, but the word freezes in his throat. Just because he knows that with every blink and breath, doesn't mean Sammy should.

Of course, Dad made him swear he wouldn't tell Sammy the Whole Truth, not for a long time, but that's not all. Dean doesn't _want _to.

And he remembers That Night, when Dad had asked him if Sammy was ready to throw a football around, and he had laughed, because even at four there were still things big brothers knew about, and it had felt good, then, to know _more_ than Sammy…like how Mommy had known lots of stories that were new to Dean.

Back then, the things that Sammy didn't know had been good—surprises they would one day share, stories that Dean would someday tell.

But back then, Mommy was alive, and Daddy was here, and Dean's secrets weren't ugly and heavy and dark.

"De-ean."

He snaps back to the present. His jeans are _sopping_, and his hands are chapped, and—

A big, wet snowball hits him square in the mouth.

It's painful sure—falling down his collar and making his cheeks sting—but it's a good kind of pain, clean and _light_, and maybe light _is_ easier, after all, because he may know darkness well but that doesn't mean he _wants _to.

So he scrapes the snow out of his mouth and glowers down at his giggling little brother flopped out in the snow, who has _no_ idea of tactics or strategy (_dude, you're supposed to _run_ now)_.

They have a grand snow battle that lasts until they almost break the front window of the motel and that's _definitely_ not a good idea so Dean calls it a day.

He's almost sorry when the snow melts.

But the days get longer in spring, and so does the light.

It's enough.


End file.
